


Your Redneck’s a Gentleman

by ruanyu



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Daryl Dixon, Bisexual Daryl Dixon, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Cunnilingus, Daryl Dixon Needs a Hug, Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes Feels, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotionally Hurt Daryl Dixon, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hurt Daryl Dixon, Insecure Daryl Dixon, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Michonne is a saint, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Daryl Dixon, Rick Grimes is patient, Self-Harm, Sexual Tension, Sub Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruanyu/pseuds/ruanyu
Summary: Michonne met his eyes, unexpected softness in that careful look. He tried to keep his gaze on her face, valiantly, not dipping his eyes to her still open blouse.“What do you know? Your redneck’s a gentleman,” she murmured to Rick and they shared a glance that was heavy with what he did not understand.“Why?” Daryl said, and it was a painful rasp.Rick looked at him. “Why do you think?”Daryl swallowed. “I ain’t a dog.” He is gruff, resentful, and his words silenced them, as though they just now understood how he had seen this.“We’re not throwing you a bone,” Michonne said, and she sounded stricken. “That’s not…that’s not what this has been about.”
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Michonne, Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes/Michonne
Comments: 30
Kudos: 200





	1. Not Your Dog

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a straightforward Daryl joins Rick and Michonne thing and turned into a way too overwrought angsty scene, because Daryl. And the sex is kind of awkward. Also because Daryl. 
> 
> Let me know if I missed anything in the tags.

The way it started was not an accident. 

He was the outsider to their relationship, and watched as they drew closer, and he was happy for Rick, who deserved to have someone like Michonne, a strong, loyal, good woman by his side, someone to love him without stinting her love. He was happy for them without denying the jealousy, that now Rick had a right hand woman he might not need Daryl as much. But he was good at hiding, at burying what he felt under what had to be done. 

Rick had given him his role, had named what he was, after the prison, on the road. “You’re my right hand man,” he had said, clasping Daryl’s shoulder in a rare moment of touch between them, and Daryl had felt his hand like a brand, burning what was between them into his skin. 

He heard the words "you’re my," because by that time he was dangerously invested in belonging to these people. He’d always needed to be led. His father once, then Merle, and now Rick. He did not fight against his own nature. There was little point to bucking against what would not change. 

Michonne, when she first came to them, had looked at him askance, unsurprisingly. He remembered those looks. She’d seen him for what he was, this redneck hanger-on mixed in somehow with decent folks, and she had been visibly tense around him, waiting for racist remarks, for underhanded insults. 

Once, Daryl had been in one of his foul tempers, and she had taken his behaviour as a reaction to her. She had cornered him out of sight of the others, shoved him hard against the wall and told him in no uncertain terms that she was here to stay. He had been startled by the contact, that vicious self-protective violence electrifying, dissipating the slow sameness of routine into sharp, sudden heat that rushed through him. 

“Ain’t done nothing,” he growled, acting surly. She had kept her hand on his chest, pushing against the slamming heartbeat that seemed to him to be audible, and she had stared at him long enough he thought she could see through him. And then she released him slowly. 

That was a revelation, though neither of them acted on what was between them at that moment, left that spark to a what could have been. He thought about it sometimes, how it would have been comical, just the two of them, the redneck with the bow and the black woman with the katana. 

For himself, once he had slept around indiscriminately, but that was when there were no expectations on either side. He had only ever been with women who wanted no more than the one time thing, who would kick him out if he even tried for more. He had no experience with relationships. And so he kept to himself, not even trying, dealing with his needs as a bodily urge that he took care of by himself. 

Except soon after Michonne and Rick got together they stopped hiding what they had become from him and started acting as though he was not there to be affected by them. He noticed things. He wasn’t dumb, or not as dumb as some thought him at least. And he saw how they weren’t much for public displays of affection, except for when Daryl was there, when they took as much notice of him as they would a dog. They kissed when he was there, touched, and embraced, and laughed together, and when he slept in the same space, when the children were not around, they made love without quieting their cries, as though he could not hear them. He would have thought them cruel, except he thought it more likely that they did not care enough to be ashamed. He was just there, he had become background, his quietness making him invisible. 

He learned to keep away from them when they were together. 

And then one day he opened the door to the sitting room and found them on the couch, aglow, sex hanging in the thick afternoon air. “Shit, sorry,” he said, roughly, and would have backed out from the room, except Michonne moved, bared breasts moving gently when she righted herself, gathered her blouse and said, “No, Daryl, wait, don’t go.” 

He stopped, her command holding him like the tug of a leash, his heart in his throat. 

There was a rustle of clothing, and then Rick spoke. “Come here, Daryl,” he said, offering a familiar command to encourage the forbidden, allowing the trespassing of their privacy. Daryl hesitated for a moment, then went towards them, conditioned by that voice of command, and looked on at how they were entangled. Michonne was heavy eyed, languorous, sweat glistening on her forehead, queen-like in her sated need. Rick was bare-chested and looked unguarded for once, his steely tension eased. 

Daryl stood before them. They should have looked ridiculous, like any couple caught in the act, but instead they looked at him as though they had intended this, amused almost at his awkwardness, his embarrassment, and he felt like the peasant to their king and queen act, emotions rushing and swirling and heating his blood.

Michonne met his eyes, unexpected softness in that careful look. He tried to keep his gaze on her face, valiantly, not dipping his eyes to her still open blouse. 

“What do you know? Your redneck’s a gentleman,” she murmured to Rick and they shared a glance that was heavy with what he did not understand. 

“Why?” Daryl said, and it was a painful rasp.

Rick looked at him. “Why do you think?”

Daryl swallowed. “I ain’t a dog.” He is gruff, resentful, and his words silenced them, as though they just now understood how he had seen this.

“We’re not throwing you a bone,” Michonne said, and she sounded stricken. “That’s not…that’s not what this has been about.”

He hunched his shoulders, scuffing his boot against the floor.

“Daryl…let us explain?” Rick said.

Daryl scowled. He was not sure what they can explain. If they had meant their displays kindly then they had been taunting him with what he could not have, even if to give him some vicarious pleasure. And if it was unintentional, then it meant they had been disregarding that he was a man of flesh and blood, seeing him as little more than furniture, not caring that he would hear them. 

Michonne gathered her blouse, covered her breasts, and he ached to have been allowed to look at her without shame. She spoke softly. “It was only because we wanted to see if you were interested, without embarrassing you. We thought you would react, either to tell us to stop or to…join us. But when you didn’t, we thought we had to…make more of an impression.”

Her explanation stumped him. They had staged this then, began this scene knowing it would end with his coming upon them like this. Because…

“We want you to join us,” Rick completed his thought, gathering what she had said, stating what she meant outright so there could be no mistake. " _She_ wants you."

Michonne dipped her head. “I do,” she said. 

Daryl flicked a startled glance at Rick. “And you…”

“I don’t own her,” Rick said, evenly. 

Daryl had once come upon his brother with two women in his bed, drunk and giggling with that effervescent mood that was all too fleeting. He has heard his friends boast of these conquests, and always, always, it was two women in bed with the man, the women serving the man. 

He was suddenly aware that Michonne was holding herself stiffly. “If you’re not interested…” She had pulled herself back, as though expecting him to refuse her, to snarl back some insult, to spit in her face. And that hurts him, to see her gathering her dignity in the face of his awkward, terse silence, the drawing back from him, and he understood then, how he could change that equation, to make her be the heart of what might be between them. He might not understand how it would work between three, between two men and one woman, but he knew this: he wanted to be here, even as uncomfortable as this stand off between them is becoming. He would risk discomfort to bring her pleasure. 

“What do you want?” he asked her, gruff again, but sincere, because he would give it to her, if he could.

She was still tense. “I don’t want…you don’t have to…” She was shrinking before him, drawing herself back again. Thinking he saw this as an obligation. He released a quick breath, impatient with his own clumsiness. Because he had no words to explain how he wanted her in return, because he could not utter those words, he lowered himself to his knees between her legs. She stared at him with a wide look, and then she shifted her stance, opened for him, drew away the blanket pooled in her lap with some shyness, and in the end it was as simple as him leaning forward, and looking at her for permission.

“Yes,” she breathed. He touched her with his fingers first, callused fingers roughened by the bow, and she shuddered violently, wordless.

He was conscious of Rick watching him finger her, and he was careful, gentle, exploring at first, before he moved in earnest. It was a joke to some, but he was good with his hands, and he had made himself learn this particular skill, because the women he had lain with before always had few expectations of him, and he had been sickened by how they had warily or resignedly rolled onto their backs for him, and he had felt drunk on their surprised pleasure when he took the time to care for their own needs before his own. 

And she was beautiful, moving with her desire, making soft needy sounds, eyes fluttering, hips shifting, already closer. He did not look at Rick for permission, addressing her as though they were alone. “Want my mouth on you?” 

Her hips stuttered and her eyes snapped open to look down at him, dazed and wanting. “That a question?” 

He was almost smiling when he leaned forward and licked into her depth, tasting the salt-sweet traces that was them, her and Rick, mingled. She moaned without inhibition, and the pleasure in her voice made him tremble, to have drawn such a private sound from her, to be allowed this intimacy. 

Her hand reached, clutched his hair, pulled him into her, closer. He took the hint and delves deeper, licked firmer, circled her sensitive nub with an agile tongue and sucked her, and soon she was shuddering, and then her thighs tried to close, to push him away, to protect her oversensitive flesh. He withdrew, hand smearing her bitter wetness from his mouth, listening to her hard breaths. Rick kissed her above him, soothed her trembling, bringing her down, murmuring sweet lover phrases Daryl had never been able to bring himself to speak. 

They looked at him afterwards, and he did not move, could not, for the moment, do more than watch them looking at him, wariness lurking just under the heady rush of this moment. He thought his heart beat was loud enough for them to hear, could feel it pounding, not just in his chest, but at his throat, as though his body was awake to its own pulse, his lifeblood rushing through his stillness. 

Rick looked...quiet, relaxed, like he was pleased with how well Daryl had done, and Michonne looked beautifully replete, content. She was giving him a reconsidering look, as though he had surprised her, and he felt a surge of ridiculous and all too rare pride in having pleased her.

“Sorry I pulled your hair,” Michonne said. He huffed out a breath to say it didn't matter, but when he met her eyes there was that spark of want still in her and for a moment he was caught off guard, trapped in her gaze like a fly in amber, staring up at her mutely. And then she reached out a hand to him, and he very carefully did not move when she laid the hand on his head and slowly stroked back his overlong hair, catching the strands in her fingers. He was conscious that it had been a while since he had washed his hair, that it was lank and badly needed a trim, that her actions revealed his eyes to them fully, and he wanted to drop his gaze. 

She gently placed her hand under his chin, more guidance than force, asking, until he tilted his head further upwards for her in obedience and then she was leaning in towards him. "Can I?" she said, her breath warm on his lips, and inexplicably he shuddered and _whimpered_ at that intimate warmth, and then to cover up his pathetic want, he surged forward himself and claimed her mouth for his, and she was warm and sweet, yielding to his surge of dominance, though he was the one kneeling, and he thought: _she is tasting herself, tasting where my mouth has been._

He resisted that sweetness by grabbing for her head roughly and holding her in place, turning the kiss forceful and hungry and filthy. He was rising up off his knees like some disobedient dog jumping up on the guests, and in some part of his mind he was just waiting for Rick to shove him back to his place. He broke the kiss abruptly before that could happen, and Michonne sucked in a lungful of air like he had been choking her with his clumsy mauling, and he drew back more, shamed by his violence, animal instinct fighting against perverse desire.

Everything he had been taught rebelled against what he desired. Merle would never have accepted this, servicing a woman while her man looked on in approval. Merle would have disowned him if he could see him now, would have spat in disgust, called him everything that was less than a man, a Dixon, should be. 

Daryl dared to look up again, realising that his knees hurt dully like they'd been hurting for a while, knowing they will hurt more tomorrow.

"Gotta go," he said, though he knew this was too abrupt. He wiped his hand across his mouth and got to his feet a little more clumsily than ideal, the unspoken words tangled on his tongue. 

And then Rick was there, standing with him, blocking his path, and it was all Daryl could do not to flinch back from him. He took a quick precautionary step back to put some distance between them. It had always been the men he obeyed who hurt him. Rick was not Merle, had never lashed out at him like Merle, but Daryl had seen Rick in his rage, and never wanted to see that look turned on him. "M'sorry," he said, to Rick, head ducked low. At that Rick grabbed his shoulder and Daryl did try to flinch away, but Rick did not let him go, only gave him a searching look. "If you think anyone deserves an apology here, why would you apologise to me? Did you not hear me when I said I don't own her?" 

Daryl took a breath and made himself look at Michonne. "I'm sorry," he repeated to her, stilted. She was the one who had asked, but he was the one who had made it forceful, made it savage, while she tried to gentle him, more patient than he deserved under his over-eager assault. As though he had never kissed a woman, and would never be allowed to again. 

She stood and approached him, the blanket and blouse dropping away so she was unashamedly, gloriously naked. "You think I would have just lain there and taken it if I didn't want to?" she asked, half-mocking, but kinder than he deserved in her forgiveness. She took his hand, raised it so it was cupping the firm smooth flesh of her breast. He sucked in a breath, and she smiled and then slipped behind him and tugged off his vest, and he was too startled to stop her, until she reached for his shirt and he stepped back.

He imagined them looking at his ugly scars, realising once more what he was, what he had been even before the turn.

"Don't wanna," he said, like some snotty-nosed brat, but she did not laugh, only stepping back and raising her hands.

"Okay," she said. "Sorry."

"You don't gotta say sorry," he said, quick. "Just...just don't wanna take it off." 

It is Rick who asked: "So you're going to let us return the favour?" 

He swallowed, glanced back at Michonne. She took this as a sign and pushed him gently back to the sofa, hand to his chest. She paused with her hand on the buckle of his belt, looked at him, for permission he realised, and he could only nod, biting his cheek to keep from pleading. 

"Okay if Rick stays?" she asked.

He flushed, and after a moment, nodded fractionally. They glanced at each other, and he feared because he hesitated there will be more of the questioning. "I ain't...ain't got a problem with...all that," he said, which was about as coherent as he could be with Michonne's hand where it is currently. Fortunately, they did not mock him, did not ask anything more, but take him at his word.

It was Michonne's hand that wrapped around him, only raising a single brow at his lack of underwear. He felt her cool firm touch like a benediction. Her callused fingers were skilled, but careful, deliberate. Almost too careful. After a few moments he made a stifled wanting sound, and Rick glanced at him, assessing.

"He needs it rougher," he said. 

Michonne wanted to make sure, slowly escalating, but Daryl could not, will not, beg for what he wanted, and so it was Rick who finished him off, brutally, fast and hard and almost perfunctory, the way Daryl took care of himself, had done for years now. Mother fist and her five daughters. 

"Gonna..." Daryl breathed, expecting them to back away, but they don't and he bit down to keep back his animal, guttural groan as he spilled into their hands. 

His breath stuttered, looking at how they look back at him, wondering at how this lazy afternoon has turned from his walking in on them to this, whatever this was.

After they clean up, Rick brushed Daryl's hair back, touch fleeting, like he was testing something, and Daryl scowled at him and moved his head back. "Ain't a girl," he said, with more surliness than he felt. Rick recognised the act, but chuckled and dropped his hand. He asked if Daryl would stay, eat with them, but Daryl shook his head, suddenly unable to meet their eyes.

"I need you to know this isn't a game, Daryl," said Rick, and his voice had that sincerity to it that made people follow him, believe in him. That voice wasn't fair, thought Daryl. "I need you to believe me when I tell you that we both wanted this." 

"And...and if you want, it does not have to be just a one-time thing." That was Michonne, as though Daryl was the one who decided.

He nodded. He did not understand why they would want this, why they would want him, but if they did, he was not going to argue. 

"Y'know where to find me," he said, casual as he could, and shrugged back into his vest. He was not expecting this to happen again, now they had whatever it was out of their system, had experienced what they had wondered about within him. As he turned however, a hand reached out, clutching his shoulder, warm, like belonging, like when Rick had called him his, his right hand man. His place had not been taken, Rick was telling him, and his gratitude for that reassurance should have been pathetic, except they had not made him feel that way. They had made him feel wanted, made him feel he could let his guard down with them, let himself have this, whatever it was. 

"Go," Rick said, "But come back to us."


	2. Double Negatives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick stopped walking. “Michonne thinks…” he stopped and shook his head slightly. “There’s no way to say this that doesn’t make me sound like an arrogant sonofabitch,” he said, wryly, and even though Daryl felt himself tense as he suspected what was now coming, it was the pause and especially Rick looking so searchingly at him that made him want to turn away, to childishly block his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had an idea for how to continue this little overly angsty story, and some time on my hands thanks to COVID-19. What else is a pandemic for if not to write out all the plot bunnies ever.

“I thought we could talk,” Rick said, in the kind of casual tone that was never casual enough. “You’ve been, uh…more silent than usual, the last couple days.” 

Daryl glanced up at him, then dropped his gaze back to the trap he was fixing. They both knew why Rick was out here, why he’d asked to tag along when Daryl was heading out. Daryl had thought about saying no, but there wasn’t really a way to do that without dropping his pretence that everything was fine.

Daryl shrugged. “Didn’t have nothing to say, is all.” He stood, then felt an uncomfortable twinge when he saw Rick’s expression, heard him sigh slightly. Daryl tried to ignore his unease but as they walked on the silence got heavy, a deepening discomfort that made Daryl regret everything that happened, with or without Rick’s blessing. 

He’d kept out of the way since, as best he could, mostly in the hope that he’d be able to hold onto the quiet ease between them, the sense that he did not have to talk to be understood. He knew now that sooner or later he would have to talk about what had happened, ask for a better explanation of why, or he might never get what he’d had back. 

Even now, he was conscious of Rick studying him, surreptitiously, like he was trying to devise a plan of attack. Daryl scowled. “Just say what you gotta say, Rick.”

“I was hoping for more of a conversation,” Rick said, making his voice light, amused, something Daryl knew was meant to put him at ease, to push back the awkwardness. 

“What we gotta have a conversation for?” Daryl said, holding a branch aside for Rick as he passed, and aiming for the same casual tone, to show that this, whatever this was, wasn’t a big deal to him either, just a bit of fooling around.

Rick stopped walking. “Michonne thinks…” he stopped and shook his head slightly. “There’s no way to say this that doesn’t make me sound like an arrogant sonofabitch,” he said, wryly, and even though Daryl felt himself tense as he suspected what was now coming, it was the pause and especially Rick looking so searchingly at him that made him want to turn away, to childishly block his ears.

“What? What does Michonne think?” Daryl said, and heard the impatient, rough note in his voice. Why the fuck was he so bad at this? 

Rick cleared his throat. “Michonne has been wanting me to talk to you for a while,” he said. “Even before…well, what we did, it was because I couldn’t make myself talk to you, and that was the idea we had instead, because if it didn’t work we’d be the ones embarrassed, and no harm done, do you see what I mean?” 

Daryl did not see. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what was becoming clearer to him. He shook his head. “What you trying to say?” he said. 

Rick sighed. “Michonne said that I’d been blind all these years, to not notice what was right in front of me.” Rick took a few steps closer and Daryl had to stop himself from moving back. 

“She said that everyone…” Rick stopped abruptly, reworded. “She said she thinks you feel something for me, that you have for some time, but that you don’t know how to express it. She said that maybe you needed me to show you that whatever you feel is okay.” 

Daryl stood rooted to the ground, hearing the careful tone of Rick’s voice, like each word he spoke could spark anger. He did not move but wanted to curl up in humiliation, to run away and hide somewhere dark where he could make himself face that Rick had done what he had done out of kindness, because he wanted to show Daryl it was okay for a man, even a man like him, to have feelings for another man.

When Rick took one more step, Daryl raised his hands instinctively and shoved him away, fear and hurt making everything blur around him. He didn’t push that hard, just a shove that should have been a warning to step back, but Rick must have been off balance because he went down on his backside with a startled curse. 

They both instinctively scoured the area, looking for signs that the noise of their scuffle had alerted walkers, but there was nothing, and Daryl suddenly wanted to curse, because he wanted walkers to burst out of the brush so he could step forward and cover his fallen brother, could draw his bow and fall into the mindless pull and release, until Rick was back on his feet and fighting, and they were together, mind and soul, in sync.

But there were no walkers, only a few birds bursting out of the foliage and winging away, and Rick lying winded on the ground with Daryl standing over him, hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

Rick let out a breath and began to pick himself up slowly. Daryl watched out of the corner of his eye, through the strands of hair that had fallen over his face. If he’d been the one having to stand up after Rick shoved him onto his ass, he knew he would scramble up with his head down to hide his shame. But Rick didn’t avoid looking at Daryl. He stood like he had all the time in the world, then dusted himself down with a quiet dignity that made Daryl’s heart ache. 

“Okay,” Rick said, evenly. “Maybe it was arrogant of me to even think you wanted to have this conversation.” 

Daryl gnawed at his thumb. He wanted to rewind time, wanted to say you’re not arrogant, wanted to apologise, to blurt out a garbled mess of words like when he was a cringing child and his father’s belt fell like fire on his back. “Sorry I shoved ya,” he said instead, roughly.

Rick’s mouth gave a jerk that looked nothing like a smile. “I’ll let it pass this once,” he said. “Better not try it again.”

For a moment neither of them said anything, although Daryl knew Rick was waiting, giving him the chance to say his piece, if he would. This was why he was their leader. He always thought he got too much attention, but his skill was how attentive he could be. “S’getting dark,” Daryl muttered finally to his boots, cringing at his own cowardice.

Rick didn’t say anything for a few minutes, but then he fell back into his role, as though nothing had happened. 

“Yeah,” he said. “We should be heading home.”

Once they got to the gates, Daryl saw that Michonne was waiting there, playing the good wife, waiting for her man to come home. He clenched his jaw, knew that if he spoke to anyone his unjustified anger would overwhelm him and he would spew out those words he’d heard men say all his life, words he did not mean, words he wished he had never said to any woman. 

When Michonne looked like she was going to speak to him, Daryl pushed past, unable to face anyone, heard Rick tell her quietly to “let him go.” He walked blindly away until he found himself by the horses and stood at the fence to their paddock just watching them graze and kept his hands shoved in his pockets until he stopped trembling like a girl. After a while, Michonne came up behind him. She took a look at his face and said “what did he do?” 

“He didn’t do nothing,” Daryl said, roughly, because Rick hadn’t done anything, all he’d said was what he knew about Daryl. What everyone apparently knew.

She tilted her head, looked like she was going to say something, then stopped and started again. “I was going to say you don’t have to protect him from me,” she said. “But protecting him has always been your job, hasn’t it, Daryl?” 

Daryl’s shoulders tightened. In his mind, Merle’s voice spat out interfering bitch and he had to grit his teeth to bite back the words. “What you say to him about me, Michonne? Tell me exactly what you said.”

Michonne stilled, sensing danger in his tone, but characteristically wading right into the fray. “I said I think that you may have feelings for him, but that you don’t know what to do with them.”

He could feel it coursing through his blood, the hateful rage that sometimes flooded through him, the bitterness of failed men who blamed their lives on anyone but themselves. “What the fuck does that mean? Have feelings?” He wanted her to say the word, to lay the curse of his weakness on him, to say what he was, but Michonne was wise to what he was doing. She tilted her chin up, her eyes glinting a dark warning. She wasn’t the kind to be intimidated by any man’s raised voice. 

“You don’t shout at me,” she said, very quietly. “Not for this.” 

Daryl realised distantly that his hands were trembling again. He shoved them back in his pockets and looked away from her, breaking their gaze, and Michonne seemed to take that as an apology, thought she let him wait for a moment before she continued. “I’m sorry if you think I betrayed you. I meant it as a reassurance, for Rick to know that our relationship would not be jeopardised by whatever was going on between you two.”

“Nothing was going on between us,” Daryl spat out, knowing as he spoke that the words were bursting from him too desperately. “I didn’t do nothing….nothing…to make him think I wanted anything from him.” 

She just looked at him then, letting the force of his knee-jerk denial speak the truth, then she shook her head and sighed. “I believe you on the second part; I know you would not act on your feelings.” She gave a little huff and corrected herself. “I mean, your hypothetical feelings, because you don’t have any, do you?” 

Daryl growled a curse and turned to stalk away from her perceptive gaze, cowardly as running away was. He knew he had to leave to stop the words that would come out otherwise, that would not be forgiven. 

“Emotions are not something to be ashamed of, Daryl,” Michonne called after him, and he thought he detected some humour in her voice now, and the idea of her going home to Rick and them laughing at him blended into the memories of that afternoon when he had walked in on them. They had given him what they thought he wanted in a way they thought he would accept. He wanted to walk back out into the dark forest, to find some equilibrium, to get rid of this anxious uncertainty. Instead, he walked home, collapsed on the sofa and fumbled for his lighter. Jerking his sleeve up, he held the open flame to the inside of his upper arm, just briefly, until the burning pain overwhelmed his thoughts. 

The next day he went out in the early morning to make up for coming home empty handed the night before. Walking through the chill of the dawn, Daryl got to remembering how he had been after Negan, helpless and pathetic, cringingly dependent. For the first few days, he had been starving but unable to eat because the action of bringing anything to his mouth meant to do battle with his own body, and even when he managed to swallow, he had vomited. He hadn’t been able to sleep for days, the only rest he got coming from exhaustion, a brief respite that lasted minutes, before he jerked awake, flooded with terror and adrenaline. Rick had noticed, had brought him food, put the plate down and pushed it towards him. “Eat,” he had said, and Daryl had been so relieved at the command he could have cried with relief. He had kept his eyes trained down on his food until the plate was finished, and then he looked at Rick, instinctively, and Rick had said, simply, “Good,” and though Daryl carefully did not react he felt the single word like a healing balm. 

Rick had treated him as though he was still worth something, still a man with his pride, when everyone else gentled their voice, as they might when talking to a spooked animal. And Daryl had repaid him by pushing him down, by pretending he did not care. 

When he got back Michonne was once again waiting at the gate. Daryl was messy with the blood of his kills, and with the guts of several walkers, and he did not want her talking to him while he was like this, his mind still cocooned inside the silence of the forest. He wanted to escape again, but when he saw her face, the intent determination there, he knew better than to try to run, so he set down the carcass he was carrying over his shoulders and waited for her to reach him.

“I should have asked what _you_ did,” Michonne said, with immediate, restrained hostility. “I went after you yesterday because I thought you’re the one who’d need to talk, if I could get you to talk. But it was Rick who needed me to hold him together, after whatever you did.”

“Was only a push,” Daryl said, feeling shame constrict his throat so the words were forced out, muttered to the ground.

“He didn’t tell me you laid your hands on him,” she said, after a slow beat, and something had been held back in her voice, so now it sounded too flat, too neutral. 

Daryl gnawed at his thumb and she took a deliberate step closer, her chin up in challenge. “I’m not going to let you hurt him, Daryl,” she said, evenly, and his heart felt like it had stopped beating, like it had turned to stone in his chest. He wanted to say good. He wanted to say this is why he is better with you than me. But his mouth stayed closed, clamped shut so his jaw ached.

“Look at me, Daryl,” she said, the words spaced out and insistent. He made himself look up at her, meeting her intent gaze.

“Maybe what you said yesterday is true and Rick is nothing to you but your leader,” she said. “If that’s the case, we can forget about what happened.”

He took a shallow breath. This should have been what he wanted, and yet the words made his chest feel tight, compressed, like he could not draw in air.

“We’re not going to force you. You know where we stand,” she said, and her voice was slightly softer. “You know what we’re offering, and you know that we both want to explore what could happen between us. It’s up to you now.” 

With that, she walked away from him, straight backed and dignified, and he stood watching her walk away.


	3. Broken Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They glanced at each other.
> 
> "Stubborn," said Michonne.
> 
> "He wouldn't be Daryl if he wasn't," said Rick.
> 
> "I'm right here," Daryl reminded them, but even he knew his disgruntled tone was not the same as his angry one.
> 
> Michonne smiled, and he wondered what he'd done to put that soft look on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so since this basically started as a pwp that acquired a semblance of plot and a whole load of feelings, there isn't an actual timeline for this story other than I guess sometime between the Saviours and the Whisperers.

Over the next few days, Daryl thought back often and unwillingly to that moment when he had opened that door and realised what he was seeing, not the steely-eyed guardians of his community but just a man and woman, lovers, allowing themselves to be vulnerable and tender in each other’s presence. 

They had allowed him to see them like that, used their ease with each other to lure him closer, as though knowing he had never himself experienced such willing surrender, such naked vulnerability. And when he had turned away, they had called him back, patient with his surliness as though knowing that his attitude hid wide-eyed confusion, like he was some pup still wet behind the ears. 

In the quiet of the forest, mind wandering, he circled back to how the scene could have ended differently. He imagined how he could have shaken his head, closed the door hastily, stumbling away with the heat of sudden lust coursing through him, to take care of his own needs as he always had. 

And then he shook that thought away, and imagined instead that that he had allowed Rick to touch him with something approaching gentleness, had not pulled away from what he knew now was a test, judging his tolerance for affection, for genuine feeling. 

_Not a game,_ Rick had said. _We both want this,_ Rick had said.

And Daryl had played at willingness. _You know where to find me._ Like he didn’t care either way, like a shrug that meant he could take it or leave it, trusting that they could read what his off-hand answer meant. But then as soon as he left them, doubt returned. What could they want from him? Couldn’t they see he didn’t do relationships, had never done, even before the world ended? 

He thought that maybe he could have made whatever this was work if they had been willing to just keep it to the physical, to what he understood, without talking everything to death. But to learn that Michonne had encouraged Rick to talk to him made shame twist deep within him, made him cringe within his own thoughts. _Faggot,_ he heard Merle sneer in his mind, heard the word over and over until he had to seek out the sickening groans of walkers to drown out his dead brother’s voice, thrusting his knife hilt deep into their rotten flesh. 

They wanted more from him than he could give. He had to say and do more than just be available for passing experiences to liven up their lives. 

The problem was he didn’t know what else he could offer them.

Daryl took to spending more time in the forest where he could escape the discomfort of interacting with people. 

He was aware Rick and Michonne were allowing him to avoid them, acting as though nothing had happened. When they had to address him, they spoke to him only about practical things. Rick had come by once when he had guard duty to hand Daryl a slip of paper with things they needed for next time he went out scouting. “Here,” Rick said, and Daryl just nodded and shoved the paper in his pocket. 

“Stay safe,” Rick added, and Daryl nodded again, like it was a command, like he was obeying orders. 

Everyone else in the community knew by now that something was up. There was no way of hiding the tension. Even if they tried to pretend, he knew his own tense behaviour would give the lie to their act. He had never been a good liar. 

Not that anyone said anything to him. They were all treading carefully around his suddenly more volatile temper. He knew even as he lashed out that those he wounded with his growled words did not deserve his rage, and he knew too, that his attitude was not helping him, damaging his already tarnished reputation. The way people looked at him had always had some degree of wariness which had only intensified since he came back from the Saviours, as though they knew he belonged there more than within this community.

He knew all of this, but still he could barely hold his rages in check, snapping at anyone who gave him cause. 

Once, just as a meeting was breaking up, a newcomer who hadn’t been looking where he was going bumped into him. Stumbling back, Daryl muttered some unnecessarily vile curse to which the man retaliated, flushed with rage at the insult and the humiliation before the others. “Fucking redneck trash,” the man spat, squaring up to him, and rage so blinded Daryl so that he didn’t know what he was doing until Michonne pulled him away sharply.

For just that split second, he rounded on her instead, taking two quick warning steps as though he was expecting her to cower, stumble back enough that he would cage her with his arms against the wall. He knew how that story went, has seen enough times what it looked like when men did that. 

Michonne stood her ground and looked straight at him instead, slightly rebuking, like she was chiding someone who should know better, and then Rick was between them, calm but cold-eyed. “Daryl. Go walk the perimeter or something until you’ve cooled down,” he ordered. 

Daryl stepped back, thought back to the taunting voices that he heard over and over, heard still, when it was dark, when he found himself back in that cell. _Rick’s right hand man. Not even a man, more like an attack dog. Don’t have a mind of your own, do you, dog?_

“Fucking watch where yer going next time,” Daryl growled to the guy who had called him trash, shoulder checking him deliberately as he walked past, not even caring what anyone thought of his behaviour. 

Michonne came to find him when he was sitting on the steps of his own pristine house, the house he came back to only to sleep. He glanced up at her, cigarette in hand, lungs burning from smoke. 

“You’ve been smoking a lot more,” she said.

“Hmm,” said Daryl.

She studied him, exhaled a breath, and sat down next to him without asking, and for a moment he tensed, expecting words, expecting her to want him to talk, but she said nothing, just sat there, her thigh pressing solidly against his, and he took a shaky relieved breath and ground the cigarette out under his boot. 

He flashed back to how she’d looked at him so knowingly, without fear, waiting for him to come back to himself. 

She glanced at him. “You wouldn’t have hurt me,” she said, as though she knew what he was thinking. 

“How’d you know?” he said. “I grew up around men hurting women, saw that shit all my life. S’in my blood.” 

“You’re not them,” she said and turned her head to look at him. “You’re a good man. You have a kind heart.” 

He stared at her, frowning. 

“Remember how I called you a gentleman?”

He flushed. “Cause I didn’t stare at your tits,” he said. 

She tilted her head. “And because you are a gentle man,” she said, matter of factly, spacing out the words. 

He ducked his head. There was still, was always, blood and gunk under his nails. 

“One of the gentlest men I’ve ever known,” she said, softly, an insistence. 

He shifted slightly, glanced at her, something tentative in the air between them. The very air seemed to vibrate for a moment, and then, as though knowing when it was too much, she eased the tension with a soft laugh. 

“And besides, you think I would have waited around for Rick to save me like some damsel in distress?” She huffed out a breath, scoffing. “You’d have been on the ground with my boot on your neck if you’d laid even a finger on me. Trust me on that, okay?” 

He dipped his head, hid his smile. “Yeah,” he said. 

She nodded, once. 

“We don’t want to put any pressure on you, you know,” she said, after a moment. “Just asking you to remember how it was, and to see if you could trust us a little.” 

For a brief moment she put a hand on his shoulder and used that unnecessary support to stand, and he fumbled for another cigarette and imagined what it would take for him to be able to say what he needed to say.

He was out hunting the next day on an otherwise ideal afternoon when a walker sprang out at him out of nowhere and in the frantic struggle he fell hard enough against an outcrop of rock to momentarily lie stunned. He forced himself up just long enough to stab the rotting carcass through the skull before he collapsed, panting, barely able to move without pain flaring out across his skull and down his right arm. He touched his hand to the back of his head and it came away smeared with blood. The sun set while he lay there, and, unable to manage the walk home in the dark while his head pounded and the world spun around him, he spent the night out in the open, sleepless and shivering, ears pinned back for the slightest sound, scouring the darkness for darker shapes against the sky. 

When he reached the gate the next day, the people there let him in without a word, but he was conscious of them looking at him, and as he walked through the streets to his home he was aware of how people retreated from him, shooting him sidelong looks and whispering. 

He had been home no more than fifteen minutes when the front door banged open, and Rick was there, a glittery hardness to his eyes, face set in antagonism. 

Daryl got to his feet and Rick barely paused before he strode forward like personal space was not a thing. “I thought something had happened to you,” Rick growled. “You don’t just disappear like…”

Rick had pushed him back enough that pain flared down his right arm, the movement making him grit his teeth at the unexpected stab of agony, and just like that, Rick stopped, abrupt as the flipping of a switch, his tone and demeanour changed, concern flickered over his face. “What happened?” he said.

“Fell,” Daryl said, shortly. "Fucked up something."

Rick’s eyes flickered over him, looking for where he was injured. “Where are you hurt?”

Daryl nodded at his right arm, glumly. “Musta banged it up worse’n I thought.”

“Let’s get someone to check it out,” Rick said, taking charge, as he always did. “Come on.” 

When Daryl emerged from what passed for their clinic with his right arm bound to his chest Rick was hovering outside the door with his guilt so evident you’d think he’d broken the arm himself. “Shit Daryl, I’m sorry…” Rick said, even though he had already apologised multiple times. Michonne was with him, a fierce scowl on her face like she was ready to hurt someone, but then when she turned to Daryl her face softened. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Daryl said.

“Stay with us,” Rick said. “You’re going to need some help.”

Daryl glanced down and away. With his right arm bound up like this, he was no longer even useful as a hunter. “I can manage,” he said, "Broken an arm before and didn't need babysitting. Still got a working arm, don't I?" 

They glanced at each other.

"Stubborn," said Michonne.

"He wouldn't be Daryl if he wasn't," said Rick.

"I'm right here," Daryl reminded them, but even he knew his disgruntled tone was not the same as his angry one.

Michonne smiled, and he wondered what he'd done to put that soft look on her face. 

"Promise you'll ask for help if you need it?" Rick asked.

Daryl nodded. 

Michonne sent a message later that day that he should come see her, and he went to their house dragging his feet, anxiety a knot in his stomach, sure that she would want to talk, to put pressure on him to stay and accept their help. Instead he found that all she wanted was to consult with him about where they should send this week’s supply runs, gesturing to a map laid out over the dining table while holding Judith on her hip, a leader juggling her other role as harried mother. The little girl was getting too big to be carried everywhere but still she reached out to Daryl, so he glanced a question at Michonne. “Better not, maybe, cause of the arm?”

“Just sit down so you won’t drop her,” she said, easily. 

He sat down and she gave him the girl, and something anxious and restless within him settled and quietened with the child’s weight against his chest, his arm curved around her to keep her safe. 

"You eaten?" she asked, casually, a transparent question, since they both knew she'd arranged for the kitchens to make stew, a meal that needed only a spoon he could hold in his left hand, a ploy to make sure he got to eat without too much trouble. 

"Yeah," Daryl said, glancing at her. "Thanks." 

She just dipped her head, and he was reminded, once again, of how well she seemed to understand him. 

A little while later Rick entered, looking weary, and for a second he stared at Daryl, as though not knowing what he was doing there, and Daryl felt heat creep up his neck, tongue thick in his mouth, even though the map was right there, his alibi. 

“I didn’t…we weren’t…” Daryl said, and stumbled over his words.

“This isn’t what it looks like?” Rick said, with some wryness. “You’re not planning next week’s runs?”

Daryl ducked his head. “She...Michonne asked me here,” he said. 

Michonne snorted and shifted to take Judith back, and then she was standing slightly in front of him, as though to cover over his dumb silence. 

“Goddammit Daryl,” Rick sighed, “Can we all just stop pretending?”

Daryl jerked his head up, feeling the need to defend himself. “What? Y’all never said nothing has to change…”

“But things _have_ changed,” Rick said, with an edge of exasperation, and Daryl flinched minutely, and Michonne said “Rick,” in this warning voice, and then there was a charged silence that left Daryl feeling like his breaths were too loud. When he looked back up Rick had schooled his expression back to neutrality in an effort to keep the fragile peace.

He stood and walked out, and Rick followed him down the hall, reached out a hand and gripped his one working arm to stop him escaping. “I just need to know you understand,” Rick said. 

“I understand,” Daryl said, suddenly unreasonably angry. “I understand that you think I’m a faggot that’s been mooning after you like some…some lovesick fool.” 

Rick stared at him. “You think…” he stopped, shook his head slightly. 

“Lemmego,” Daryl growled, twisting a bit but staying where he was, not really trying to shrug off Rick’s staying grip on his arm. They both knew he could have been free in a moment if he wanted. 

“If I let you go, will you hear me out?” Rick asked. Daryl hesitated, then gave a single nod. Rick holding him still was a kindness, a pretext for Daryl to stay put and listen to him. 

Rick dropped his hand. Daryl immediately missed the contact, the firm grasp, the excuse that kept him where he was. He shifted his feet, feeling like he was flying apart at the seams. 

“You don’t call yourself that word, you hear me?” Rick said, intensely. “Unless you’re willing to use the same insult on me too.”

Daryl frowned at him.

“I told you from the start,” Rick said. “We _both_ wanted to see what could happen.”

“Yer lying,” Daryl growled. “Michonne was being an interfering bitch and…” 

“Shut up!” Rick snapped and Daryl closed his mouth with an almost comical abruptness and glared back at Rick, breathing hard, hating the words he had blurted out, the ugliness inside him exposed for Rick to see.

“You’re going to apologise to Michonne for that.”

Daryl jerked his head down in a shamed nod. 

"That isn't you," Rick said. "You're not that kind of man anymore. You never were." 

"How'd you know?" Daryl asked, looking up, and he'd intended the words to be a challenge but they came out too soft, too genuine.

Rick searched his face for a moment, and then, before he knew what was happening Rick was kissing him, only for a bewildered second Daryl didn’t realise that this was meant to be a kiss, this claiming, with Rick pinning him in place. And then Daryl was not just letting this happen, he was the one deepening the forceful meeting of lips and tongue until the kiss was inverted, turning from violence to tentative and exploring, and Rick’s hand went from gripping his shirt to bring him closer to cradling his jaw while Daryl’s heart thundered in his ears. 

Rick pulled back. “Go on then, call me what you just called yourself,” Rick challenged, and Daryl stared at him, close enough to see the shades of color in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to call me a faggot too?” 

Daryl shook his head, broke away. “Stop it,” he said. 

“Daryl…” Rick said, softer than he had before, “It doesn’t have to be this difficult. You don’t need to fight this so hard.” 

“Ineedtogo,” Daryl said, words strung together in a mumble, but he didn’t move, just standing there, hair falling over his face.

“I told you he needs more time, Rick,” said Michonne, from the doorway. Rick looked at her. “Tell him he can go,” she prompted. “Can’t you see he won’t move unless you tell him?” 

Rick took a breath, gave a slight nod. “Go on then,” he said, slightly hoarse. "You know where we'll be."

Daryl swallowed. “''Kay.” He hesitated. "Thanks." 

"Yeah," Rick said, and he was only smiling a little bit. 

That night, Daryl could not sleep. His body would relax enough that he slipped into a doze, but then he would snap back into wakefulness, senses on full alert, and when finally the first rays of light entered the room, he could feel his heavy eyelids dragging down, feeling rough as sandpaper on his aching eyes. 

He thought he heard Merle laughing. _Darlina, Darlina, Darlina,_ the taunt came back through the years, all the way back to the days when Daryl would stand bare chested before the mirror and look at his silvery scars and wonder if anyone, anyone, would ever find anything attractive in him, would ever want to touch him. 

He thought back too to that one time his father had found the leaflet, a rainbow flag across the top, bright and bold and happy, and information about support and groups listed below, and how his father had the leaflet crumpled in his fist when he confronted him, and how Daryl had lied, panic making his voice thin, said they'd all had to take it and he'd been about to throw that shit out, he had, but that still had not saved him, and his father had pulled on anything he could hold onto, limbs and clothes and hair, used whatever he found at hand to beat him with before he resorted to the belt again.

Daryl had blacked out, came to on the floor, dragged himself to his feet and heard the sound of his teeth against each other, jaw trembling uncontrollably, and cradled his arm against his chest. 

“You’re going to be alright,” Merle had promised him, on the way to the hospital, voice choked with something, and he’d hated his brother for lying.

"He got into a fight, stupid mutt," Merle said, to the doctors, and they'd taken one look at Daryl and believed it.

Daryl had come home with his arm in a cast and learned to carefully look away from anything with a rainbow flag.

His father had never spoken of it again.

When his broken arm ached now, it reminded him of his familiarity with pain. He longed for his bow, missing the woods. And he kept reliving that kiss, the heat and hunger that he had felt for himself, that should have been enough for him to finally be able to accept what they were waiting so patiently for him to understand.

He didn't leave the house the next day and by nightfall Michonne had come by to see him and from the expression on her face Daryl knew he looked like a wreck. He felt faint and light-headed from lack of sleep, his right arm strapped to his chest like a broken wing, making him a liability. 

An archer without his bow. _Worthless._

He blinked muzzily at her, wondering what she wanted. 

“You’re coming with me,” Michonne said, in a voice that was not negotiable. 

“Nah,” he said, and tried to shake his head, but it was a weak protest, and she knew it because she simply looked at him.

He hunted for something to say. 

“I called you a…” he started, and she held up a hand to stop him.

“An interfering bitch,” she said. “I know.” She continued looking at him, waiting now.

“I’m sorry,” he said, haltingly. “I didn’t mean…I don’t believe you are…that. I just…I say a lotta words that I don’t mean sometimes.”

She gave a slight nod and he feared she would ask why, and he would have to stumble through an explanation of how sometimes hearing words like that all through your childhood meant that they lodged themselves inside you. 

He wondered how he could explain that he thought of women as _bitch_ like he thought of himself as _faggot_ when he was feeling angry at the world and at himself. But she did not make him explain. “You’re forgiven,” she said, simply, “Now come with me.” She turned and lead the way, and he hesitated and then followed her silently, mostly out of pure exhaustion. 

When they got through the door she urged him down on the couch, and he just went, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, weary beyond words. 

“You haven’t slept at all, have you?” Her lips pressed together, and she looked displeased. She reached out her hand and placed the back of her fingers on his forehead gently. The touch was careful and she soon removed her hand, but then despite himself he leaned forward, just barely, out of a dumb animal need to have that gentle touch back, and she made a hushing sound, and placed her hand back on his forehead, this time ending by stroking slowly back to his hair. 

“Lie down,” she said, and he was thankful she made it a command rather than a soft encouragement, so that he only hesitated for a few seconds before any notion of resistance crumpled like wet paper and he sank down on the couch. Michonne laid a blanket over him, making the maternal gesture brusque and efficient. “Sleep,” she ordered in that same tone and she had scarcely finished the word before he was out. 

Rick came home sometime when Daryl was drifting in half-sleep. Daryl sensed his presence, heard the low tones of Rick’s voice as he spoke to Michonne, heard them talking to each other in murmurs in order not to wake him, and in the waking part of his mind their unexpected care for him made him feel a confusion of gratitude and an unspoken fear that they would give up on waiting on him to sort out the mess in his mind. 

_Wait,_ he wanted to say. _Just give me a little more time. Let me believe this is real._

He jerked awake with the disorientation that came with being in an unfamiliar place, reaching for a weapon and jarring his right arm. “You’re safe,” Rick’s voice said, softly, and Daryl's tension eased, blindly trusting even before he had adjusted to where he was. He blinked sleep out of his eyes, and Rick was there, and when Daryl sat upright he gestured for permission to sit on his own couch. Daryl gave it with a wary, wordless nod. 

Rick sat down and cleared his throat like he was about to lay out a mission. “I know Michonne will be here soon to check on you, but before she gets here…” he paused, examining Daryl with that perceptive gaze. “I have two questions for you.” 

Daryl said nothing at first, because he was too tired, suddenly, to protest and Rick had not asked him, had simply stated what would happen, making everything easier. He tilted his head in a gesture that meant fine, and that he knew Rick would translate.

Rick took a breath. “I know it’s difficult, but I need to know. Did you…did you want what we did that day or did you just go along with it?” 

Daryl does not understand how that could be a question. “I wanted it,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Couldn’t you tell?” 

Rick smiled slightly, some barely perceptible tension in him eased and Daryl understood then that this was the worry had been carrying around, while Daryl had been wrestling with his shame at too obvious feelings for another man, and he felt shamed by his own cowardice once more. 

Rick looked directly at him. “Then my next question is…is it Michonne? Is it her you want?” 

That’s more than two questions, Daryl wanted to quip nervously to fill the silence that seemed endless before he could speak the two words locked in him. 

“It’s…both,” Daryl said, gruffly, and Rick’s eyes lit up as though he’d been given a gift, but as though he knew just how much those two words had cost, he said nothing, only nodded slightly. “Thank you,” he said, after a moment, and then stood and walked away, giving Daryl the space he needed to recover from this confession. 

Daryl knew Michonne had heard about what he had told Rick, though she said nothing to him about it. The knowledge twisted within him as he counted the hours to come with nothing to do, crippled as he was by his bound arm. 

He was pacing the room with clumping strides when Michonne told him to stop, firmly, and he stopped and stared at her, and everything that was swimming around his mind stilled at the way she captured his attention.

She was beautiful, regal, more patient than he deserved. 

“Can’t be sitting all day,” he griped, and she walked right up to him and put her hands on his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes, and he saw her immediate recognition of his need for something to ease his anxiety, something physical, mindless, something to stop the dark voices that told him all he was not and could never be.

“What do you want?” she asked, probing, as though he could verbally articulate any kind of want before either of them at this point. He could only shake his head, mutely, unable to express what was within him, made miserable by his own muteness, the way words he wanted to say refused to be spoken. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” she said. He tilted his head in an okay. A few minutes later, as they were walking the perimeter, she spoke without looking at him. 

“I believe that you need something we can offer you,” she said, carefully. “I don’t know if it’s…love or want or…or desire, or what. But I know you need someone to keep you grounded. To tell you how things will be and what you should do.” She glanced at him, as though giving him space to object, to deny, but he just listened. Remembered his father, and Merle, and who he had been when he was younger, the one who listened, the one who carried out their orders, who felt his anxiety settled by this knowing that they would take care of things, and he would only have to do what they said. 

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for something, but when she spoke her voice was even. “Do you want me to step back, leave you and Rick alone for a while?” 

Daryl stared at her, because had not expected that question. Michonne did not seem the sacrificing type. She tilted her head. “I’ll fight you for him later,” she said, calmly returning his gaze. “But I’m prepared to back off until you’re more…grounded.”

“No,” he said, quickly. And then again, with more clarity. “No. I don’t want that. I told Rick...” he stopped, because he couldn’t put a sentence together saying the two words he had said. 

“You think you really want us both?” she said, the first question she had made him answer, one that sought confirmation only, and kindly did not require more of him, so he did not have to put into speech what he was feeling, his faltering words ruining his meaning.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, ducking his head, suddenly shy, and she did not laugh at him, only let out a soft, confirming sound. 

Later, when Judith was asleep, Daryl lay on the couch with his head in Michonne’s lap, her slow gentle fingers combing through his freshly washed hair. Rick came over and leaned down to kiss Michonne, and she hummed something contended and murmured a greeting against his lips. Daryl sat up, feeling only a little awkward, warm and flushed from this slow sleepy day, and Rick did not ask for permission when he tilted Daryl’s face up towards him, giving him a careful kiss that was like an introduction, like the tender promise for more, while Michonne watched them with a slight smile, like she knew a secret they would soon learn. 

Daryl shifted to sitting up, wanting to keep them both in his line of sight. Rick put a steadying hand on his back, comfortingly. “Relax,” he murmured and Daryl tried to concentrate on how unfamiliar but how good that soothing hand felt, just anchoring him in place like that. 

“You belong here,” Rick said, firm yet earnest as only he could be, and Daryl felt his chest expand, the restriction of uncertainty easing, the air coming in more freely. 

Michonne let her hand hover over his, and when she was sure he had seen it, she laced her fingers in his gently and rubbed a thumb across his knuckles. “This, it is not going to be easy,” she said softly. Nothing ever was, Daryl thought. But it was one of the few things he had ever had which would be worth it.

“We will need you to communicate,” Rick said, a little crinkle of concern in his forehead. “Understand, Daryl? You have to let us know. We can try to guess what you’re thinking, but that’s not enough." And then a little smile. "You're tough to read sometimes. You have to help us out.” 

Daryl nodded. “I understand,” he said. 

He should be there to make their life easier, amidst everything else, their responsibilities, the leaders they were in this devastated broken world. He wondered at the fact that they were still open to what could be between them, to making the most of what they had in the ruins. They were braver than he was.

He had a sudden intense image that made him want something he could not speak, and he shifted uncertainly, glancing at them. 

“It’s okay,” Rick said. “Whatever you need,” Michonner said, and with that easy permission he realised that shame was a distant shadow to what was within his reach. 

Without a word he lowered himself down to the floor. When he dared to look, neither of them were reacting with any confusion. Instead, Rick reached out to him, urging him closer. Daryl glanced up to see Michonne’s reaction and when he saw that her face had not changed, he allowed himself to lean against Rick, to lay his head against Rick’s thigh and to breath out the heaviness that he had carried for so long. “Are you comfortable?” Rick asked, softly, and he nodded, and when Rick’s hand came to rest on his head he closed his eyes, content to allow them to control what happened, to drift away from thought itself. 

And it was the first time he could remember being safe for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that it may not be believable that there would have been an LGBT group when and where Daryl grew up but *hand wave* 
> 
> I *think* this might be it for this one, other than maybe more pwp scenes if the trash muse comes back and the angsty-feelings muse that just rudely hijacked this goes back to wherever she came from.


End file.
